


it's a cruel world

by tristesses



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018)
Genre: Begging, Bondage, Crying, Double Penetration, F/F, F/M, Fear Play, Forced Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Gunplay, Object Insertion, Sex Toys, Slavery, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: After her failed escape, Qi'ra is sold to the infamous slave-breaker Aola Palakwi.





	it's a cruel world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



Qi'ra's life is ultimately worth less than a canister of coaxium.

After that door slides shut with Han on the right side and Qi'ra on the wrong one, Qi'ra loses track of things. Part of it is the head injury—Unjira smacked her good and hard on the temple, enough to make her vision blur and black out for a while—and part of it is the hazy disbelief of just how badly things had gone wrong.

Qi'ra's always considered herself a pragmatist, a realist, but it turns out she was a romantic all along, because it never even occurred to her that it would end up like this: with Proxima selling her even deeper into the Corellian underworld for just a hundred credits and a spat insult, with Han off stars-knew-where, maybe alive, maybe dead, with Qi'ra on her knees, hands tied behind her back, and a bag over her head.

With Qi'ra alone.

Or not so much, because when that bag is jerked off her head and she's exposed to the bright light of the room—cell? She glances around, feels her eyes go wide: _torture chamber?_ —there's someone standing in front of her.

There are some people, Qi'ra knows, who are just inherently dangerous; your instincts can tell who they are, from the way they carry themselves, with the surety of someone who knows how to kill, and the way they look at you, taking your measure and deciding whether you're worth more to them as a corpse. Predators.

"Ah," says the predator in front of her, pleased. "You recognize me."

Qi'ra works to get some liquid in her mouth, licks her lips before responding.

"No," she says, with that wide-eyed, open-mouthed, just-fucked look that makes people turn into idiots. She knows it's not going to work, but she might as well try. It's not like she's got anything else going for her. And it always makes—made—Han laugh. "I've no clue."

Aola Palakwi, the most famed slave-breaker in seven systems, gives her a lazy smile, her tattooed lekku curling in amusement.

"Do I look like a human male to you?" the Twi'lek asks, and her hand comes to rest on the quirt buckled to her belt, right next to her blaster—a Defender Isk-76, if Qi'ra's eyes aren't lying to her. "Those little tricks won't work on me. But they're cute; go ahead and try another."

She waits for a moment. Qi'ra's not a trained loth-cat doing tricks for treats, so she sets her jaw and only looks at Palakwi, waiting for the blow.

Palakwi gives her a thin smile, but to Qi'ra's surprise, neither she nor either of her trained mutts standing to each side of Qi'ra lay a hand on her.

"Here's the deal, girl," Palakwi says instead. "Sarkin Enneb traded a ship to get you thoroughly broken to bridle, but with one caveat." She holds up one violet finger. "He wants you back unharmed. Now, of course, his definition of unharmed is probably a little broader than yours." A flash of white teeth. "But I'm not going to spend more than the usual amount of credits on bacta for you, and he wants you in one piece, so count your blessings while you can."

She nods at her henchmen while Qi'ra absorbs that—"one piece" still leaves room for a lot of damage, but at least she'll probably have all her limbs when this is over, which not all of Palakwi's victims can say—and says, "Take her to the spa. I'm not going to work on a scrumrat."

* * *

What follows is, bizarrely, the most luxurious and comfortable experience Qi'ra has had in her life, and also the most disconcerting.

When Palakwi said "spa," she hadn't been joking; she has a multi-room suite that smells sweet, but not like perfume or candy—Qi'ra thinks it might even be real flowers; flowers!—dim lights, plush carpet that Qi'ra can dig her toes in, softer than anything Qi'ra's touched in her life. Qi'ra knows exactly where they are—everyone on Corellia knows where Aola Palakwi's penthouse is—and it hurts in her bones to know that while she's been getting into scrapes with CorSec on the streets and scrambling for scraps of food and clothes, Palakwi's been torturing slaves and living like _this_.

Qi'ra is given everything a guest would have—anything she asks for.

"I want a glass of sap-wine and some sunfruit," she says. "A silk dress. Ruby combs for my hair."

And she gets it all.

Except for privacy. They don't give her that, and she has to strip naked in front of the two grunts Palakwi's assigned to her, feel their eyes sticky on her body like hands. Her skin prickles and her mouth runs dry, because she knows what's going to happen. It's inevitable. She's a pretty woman and—and Qi'ra is a pragmatist. She knows. Better to not dwell on it. Better to let the silken dress slip through her fingers like mist and concentrate on this taste of the finer things in life.

She knows it's a game. She knows it's just going to be ripped away from her. It's practically step one in the emotional manipulation handbook: make them comfortable, then take it away. But she might as well steal snatches of it while she can, because Palakwi can take back the silks and the jewels but she can't take Qi'ra's memories.

Aola Palakwi. Qi'ra thinks about the Twi'lek as she slides into a pool of heated water, flower petals drifting across the surface, her aches finally easing for the first time in—well, in her life, really.

Palakwi was a slave, too, so the rumors go, like most Twi'leks off-Ryloth. A dancer, like many others, but with a gift; they say she can read minds, that she can make anyone do anything she wants, that she only gets off from hurting other people, that she had killed her patron and taken over his empire and cracked her own accounts to gain her freedom.

Qi'ra figures maybe the last part is true. And when she was younger, that last part had been all she cared about; she thought she would do just about anything to be like Aola Palakwi.

 _Well, maybe she'll fall in love with me and take me as an apprentice,_ she thinks bleakly, and sinks further into the steam.

* * *

"Wake up."

Qi'ra goes from sound asleep to alert in a second, street-honed instincts serving her well. She's upright and pressed against the far wall in the cloud-soft bed before Palakwi's thug can prod her again.

"Is it time?" she asks, and winces to hear her voice, higher pitched than normal.

"It's time for you to get dressed," he says, and steps back to give her a little room. His counterpart is lingering in the doorway, almost casual, except for the DL-44 he's got on his hip.

The two of them are big human men, pale-skinned like some men in Promixa's gang who never got above-ground often enough to see the sun. Twins, maybe. The one in the doorway has an ugly scar twisting up his face, skewing his features, which means one of his masters purposefully withheld bacta from him to teach him a lesson. Queasy, Qi'ra wonders if it was Palakwi.

She knows they're going to stare at her again when she takes her clothes off, so she deals with it with her head held high. She might not have much, but she was Head Girl of the White Worms and she has some pride. Carefully, treating the fabric gently, she slips into the silk dress, the only clothes available to her. It's so fine it catches on her calloused hands, too fine for her rough skin, even softened with yesterday's lotions. A slip of crimson, it fits her closely, a drape of fabric held together mainly by criss-crossing laces in the back. Uncomfortably revealing, in the light of day and under Palakwi's henchmen's eyes.

They don't offer her makeup. She doesn't ask for any. She sets her jaw and looks at herself in the mirror, meeting her own eyes. The woman—girl—looking back is white-faced and frightened. Qi'ra doesn't know how to make herself not look like that.

She'd better learn.

Over her shoulder, the man without the scar appears, and Qi'ra jumps. He grins at her in the mirror.

"Like what you see, girlie?" he asks, and puts his hand on her shoulder. "I do."

It's heavy and Qi'ra shakes it off. He frowns, grabs her again, more roughly this time. "You don't have to be like that."

"Like what?" she asks, and tries to twist away again. His face contorts and his hand convulses, a sudden throb of pain on her shoulder, while he hooks his arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him.

A sudden bolt of panic hits Qi'ra. _Not now_ , she thinks, _not here, with all these beautiful things—_

"Like what?" he says in falsetto, mockingly. His hand slides up, cups her breast, squeezes. Qi'ra cries out and squirms, but he is half a meter taller than she is and has fifteen kilos on her too.

"Linjir," his twin says warningly, and the man drops his hand and steps away—but not before grinding his hips against Qi'ra, letting her know exactly what he thinks of her.

"Fine," he says. "Later."

Qi'ra's pulse is racing, her mouth dry. It's not like she's inexperienced with men; it's just that it's only been Han—even if she wanted it, she doesn't know—

Fear is beginning to dawn on Qi'ra, the sort of fear that weighs down limbs and makes minds hazy, the sort of fear she'd been too naive to have before.

Then Linjir kicks out her legs from behind and she goes down hard on her knees with a squeal, and her hands are being grabbed and a bag jammed over her head again, the cord pulling tight and chafing against her throat.

No one is going to question a woman in her circumstances being dragged out of Aola Palakwi's building into a speeder, or from that speeder, after an agonizing, indeterminate period of time, into—a nightclub? Hard to say; she never was able to dress nicely enough to go to a real club, only dive tapcafes and cantinas. But the pulsing beat and thrum of bass voices chanting over an ominous rhythm in a room that smells of writhing bodies and spice pipes makes Qi'ra think so.

"Here she is," Scarface says loudly, over the beat. He pushes Qi'ra to her knees again, and she bites her lip to keep from hissing at the pain of hitting the bruises yet again.

The bag is yanked off her head, and Qi'ra winces at the flashing of the strobe lights before her eyes adjust and focus on Aola Palakwi, lounging across a black leather chaise, set on a VIP platform in the center of the club. She is dressed in red too, but dark maroon, the color of dried blood, tight pants and loose shirt glittering with gems, and the ever-present blaster and quirt at her side.

"Lovely," she says, and pulls herself up off the chaise. She unhooks the quirt from her belt and Qi'ra forces herself to hold still as she traces the curve of Qi'ra's jaw, along her hairline, her brow. Qi'ra's entire body tenses as it whispers along the curve of her eye socket. "Just lovely."

She taps it against Qi'ra's cheek.

"Open your mouth."

Qi'ra clenches her jaw and locks gazes with Palakwi. The Twi'lek narrows her eyes, and a slow smile curls her lips.

"Is this the game you want to play?" she asks. "Are you going to say _make me_ next?"

Qi'ra smirks, a Han-like expression, and spits on the floor in front of Palakwi.

She draws back and hits Qi'ra across the face with the quirt.

Pain strikes her like a lick of fire across her cheek and she falls to the side, hands still bound, crashing down hard on her shoulder.

At the blow, Qi'ra cries out. She doesn't mean to—in fact, she tries not to—but the pain is so shocking and so concentrated, more like a cut than a punch, and she's never really been hurt like that before—

"Turn her over," Palakwi orders. Qi'ra's legs scramble to find purchase but it's too late, Scarface and his brother have flipped her on her front so she's facedown, on her knees with her back arched. One of them hikes up her skirt, and her heart stutters. Is it going to be here? Is it going to be now?

No, it's not—not yet. Because Palakwi instead takes her anger out with the quirt on Qi'ra's sensitive upper thighs and ass, cutting lines of fire across them with the braided leather. Qi'ra bites back screams until Palakwi pauses, then tries to center herself with huge gasping breaths.

"A pretty picture," Palakwi muses. "Don't you two think so?"

Qi'ra doesn't hear what they say, because Palakwi starts up again, lashing over the throbbing marks she's already left until Qi'ra really is screaming and writhing. One of the men puts his foot on her neck to hold her in place, casual, as if it's nothing, as if she's nothing, and Qi'ra's hands twist with the desire to wring his filthy head off his shoulders.

"All right, Qi'ra," Palakwi says from somewhere above her, and the foot moves off Qi'ra's neck. Qi'ra forces open eyes thick with tears and tries to focus on her. "Are you going to be good for me now?"

"I was born bad, baby," Qi'ra says, voice dripping with sarcasm, even if it is trembling with tears.

"Fair enough," Palakwi says with a shrug. She leans down until she's nearly level with Qi'ra; Qi'ra briefly fantasizes about biting her face off.

"I'll let you in on a secret," she says. "Nothing you do or say could stop any of what happens next."

Then she's standing up and announcing, "Greetings, gentles!"

Her voice is suddenly magnified, and the music drops to a background beat.

"I hope you're enjoying yourselves. Tonight's entertainment is courtesy of this little scrumrat—" She grabs Qi'ra by the hair and wrenches her head up, sending shooting pains down Qi'ra's spine. The lights are on them and Qi'ra can't see the audience, but she does her best to compose herself regardless. _Don't let them see you cry._

"—whose favors are not only going to be displayed for you tonight, but auctioned off. Yes, that's right!" The audience cheers; Qi'ra's eyes go wide. "In thanks for their service, my men get first shot, but three lucky winners will get a piece of what's left. All proceeds go to charity, of course. Linjir, please show off the goods."

Qi'ra realizes she's shaking her head, whispering the word _no_ under her breath, as if it has any meaning here. Linjir grabs her by the arm and yanks her to her feet, and she can see the feral smile on his face as he takes the neckline of the dress, that exquisite, luxurious silk dress, and rips it off her.

Qi'ra snarls and jerks away, but his grip is like durasteel, and then his brother is at her other side, tearing the remaining tatters of the dress off her front and revealing her nakedness to the crowd.

Linjir grabs her breast and squeezes it, pinching the nipple hard. Qi'ra gasps and twists at the bolt of pain, and then he twists it while his brother's hands squeeze her ass, and he whispers, "I'm going to make you scream, girlie."

 _So this is it,_ she thinks, and her stomach drops. _Here—now—this is how it happens—_

She can't just let it happen.

Qi'ra jabs her elbow back as hard as she can into Linjir's solar plexus and slams her head back into his face, gritting her teeth at the shock. But she's pulled that trick before and she knows how to gauge the impact to not knock herself out. Linjir howls and almost, almost lets go. Qi'ra gets one arm free.

That's all she needs to go for his blaster.

One finger hooked around the handgrip—he doesn't keep it strapped in its holster, leaving it loose and easy to snag—and it's in Qi'ra's hands, and then it's shoved against Scarface's side and Qi'ra's turning to Linjir with the words "Back off or I shoot" on her lips—

And then electricity jolts through her with eye-watering, indescribable pain, seizing her limbs, as someone thumps her in the back with an electrostaff. Qi'ra's face contorts in a soundless scream as she falls writhing to the floor.

Aola Palakwi turns her over with one foot, amusement on her face.

"Well done, Qi'ra," she says. "I like them with a bit of fire in them. You two, bring her up to the table."

Linjir is snarling at Qi'ra and Scarface isn't much happier, but they obey their master without pause. Qi'ra still can't move; she's so much dead weight when they lift her up onto the table, from which Palakwi's drinks had hastily been cleared. There are a few interested bystanders lingering, watching with curiosity.

Cold marble against Qi'ra's back. Her limbs are starting to relax, twitching spasmodically; she has no control over them yet. But she thinks she has Palakwi's number; she's going to take out Qi'ra's disobedience on Qi'ra's thighs with the quirt and then let them rape her.

Qi'ra does her best to breathe. She's ready.

Instead, Palakwi unholsters her blaster.

It's an expensive thing, sleek, a model Qi'ra doesn't recognize, with a long barrel and a curved grip. Palakwi notices her looking at it and holds it up for inspection.

"Nice, isn't it?" she says thoughtfully. "Custom. I bring it along on nights like these. Can you imagine why, Qi'ra?"

"Nuh," Qi'ra manages, her vocal cords not quite obeying her yet.

Palakwi puts the tip of the blaster against Qi'ra's stomach, just above her navel. The shock of the cold metal makes Qi'ra stiffen.

"Come on," Palakwi coaxes. "Have a little imagination."

Oh, Qi'ra's imagining, all right. She's not liking what she's coming up with.

Gently, Palakwi drags the blaster tip down Qi'ra's body.

"Usually, I leave this for last," Palakwi confides in a low voice. "But I think you need to learn your place now."

Qi'ra tries to clench her legs together, but her body betrays her; she can't do it. They flop uselessly and Palakwi parts them effortlessly, spreading her legs wide. Qi'ra can feel the lips of her cunt spreading open and she can't stop it, she can't stop it—

When did she start crying?

Leaning over, Palakwi spits on her exposed cunt, letting it drip down to her entrance before—before she presses the barrel of the gun against Qi'ra's cunt, oh seven hells, this can't be happening—

 _He wants you unharmed_ , Palakwi says in Qi'ra's head, and she seizes on that one phrase like a drowning woman.  
It slides in her painfully, an intrusion her body does not wish to accept. It has no choice. Inch after inch, the barrel of the blaster sinks into her, and then Qi'ra hears the click.

"This is a flamethrower too," Palakwi says conversationally. "It takes about sixty seconds to go from cold to ready to fire. Tell me something, Qi'ra, are you going to say sorry to Linjir and Ralan in the next sixty seconds?"

Panic spikes through Qi'ra, strangling her words in her throat for a few horrifying seconds.

"In one piece," Qi'ra slurs. She's beginning to regain control of her limbs, scrabbling at the table with her fingers. "You said I had to be in one piece—"

"I'm willing to pay the fee," Palakwi says indifferently. Inside Qi'ra, the blaster is warming up. "Say you're sorry."

Qi'ra believes her. May the stars have mercy, Qi'ra believes her.

"I'm sorry," she says, twisting to look at Linjir, then at Scarface—Ralan. "I'm so sorry, I—"

"Say you won't do it again."

"I swear I won't do it again—"

"Beg them to fuck you."

Qi'ra whips back to stare mutely at Palakwi.

"Twenty seconds," Palakwi says.

Qi'ra swallows.

"Please," she whispers, not looking at either of the men, "please fuck me."

"With pleasure, I'm sure," Palakwi says, and takes the blaster out of her. Qi'ra's body jerks at the sensation. "Gentlemen—she's all yours."

"Thank you, ma'am," Linjir says with relish, and then there are hands all over Qi'ra, hands flipping her onto her front and maneuvering her so her head is hanging off one end of the table and her rear the other.

"Do you want the front or back?" Ralan says to Linjir, and horror shivers through Qi'ra.

"Front," Linjir says decisively. "I want to see her cry."

Then Ralan kicks her legs apart and she feels his thick hands heavy on her hips—

Linjir grabs her by the hair and drags her head up to look her in the eye, pinching her nose shut until she's gasping for air, and says, "Gag on it, bitch—"

They both force their way inside her at the same time, Ralan's cock thrusting into her tight cunt while Linjir gags her with his, and Qi'ra screams around the intrusion in her throat and tries to push him away. He grabs her by the wrists and holds her easily; it's like she's not even fighting, like she's just a droid or an inanimate object.

Somewhere behind them, Palakwi is laughing.

They settle into a rhythm with Qi'ra whimpering in between them, feeling like she's being split open, riven down the middle. She's crying. Weeping, really; she'd be sobbing if it weren't for Linjir's cock in her throat. She's thinking, _I'm going to kill them for this_. She's thinking, _One piece. Sarkan Enneb wants me in one piece_. She's thinking, _At least Han doesn't have to see this._

At some point, she stops thinking at all.

Qi'ra knows when Linjir comes because he thrusts all the way down her throat, hands fisted in her hair, and grunts with vigor, hips quaking. Qi'ra chokes on his come as he steps away, gagging on it, spitting it onto the floor; she tries to wipe away the mess of drool, come, and tears on her face, but there's only so much she can do.

Behind her, Ralan is groaning, then he's pulling out, and Qi'ra can feel him shooting his come all over her back. He slaps her ass once, then steps away.

Palakwi had been speaking, but Qi'ra wasn't attending to her words. Now she snaps back into focus, just in time to realize the auction is over, and three people are approaching the table: a woman and two men, all human.

"Beautiful girl, Aola," the woman says to Palakwi. "Wherever did you find her?"

"Trade secrets, Gesso," Palakwi says, a smile in her voice. "I thought you might bid on her. Did you bring your toys?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." Gesso slaps the two men on the shoulders. "And I brought Mso and Petor too. I liked what you did with the blaster, by the way. Would you really have shot her?"

"And waste valuable merchandise? You know me better than that."

But Qi'ra thinks of Palakwi's tone when she'd had the blaster inside her, the indifference mixed with excitement, and suspects otherwise.

"Get her arms and spread her legs the way I like," Gesso commands the two men who came with her. Qi'ra struggles weakly, but her energy is spent; they move her around like a pleasure droid, spreading her legs and bending them at the knee so her calf is pressed against her thigh, her arms pinned above her head.

"Perfect," Gesso says, and opens up her bag.

Rope, scratchy and tough; it's not meant to be comfortable, Qi'ra thinks, but it is meant to hold tight. Gesso binds her legs in place with elaborate knots, tying them spread open, but leaves one of the men—Mso, Qi'ra thinks—holding Qi'ra's arms.

"Now," Gesso says, "for the really fun part."

"Ten thousand on ten minutes," Palakwi says lazily.

"Ten minutes!" Gesso says, mock outraged. "You think I'll take that long?"

"What—" Qi'ra's voice is so raspy she can barely speak. "What are you going to do to me?"

They both look surprised, as if they'd forgotten she could talk.

"Oh, poor thing," Gesso says, and strokes Qi'ra's cheek. Qi'ra wants, in the parts of her that don't feel dead, to bite her fingers off. "I'm going to make you feel so good. Just you wait."

Her hand goes between Qi'ra's legs, and Qi'ra braces herself for another intrusion, but it doesn't happen. Instead, slick fingers part Qi'ra's lips and circle around her clit, gentle as a tongue, making small circles until Qi'ra makes an involuntary noise and twitches.

"There we go," Gesso says. "Good girl. Let's try this, shall we?"

This might be worse than the brutality.

Her gentle fingers stroking Qi'ra's stomach and hips, Gesso nods at Petor, who smiles back and leans down to cup Qi'ra's breasts in his hands. He doesn't squeeze hard, like Linjir; instead, he caresses them, rubbing his fingers over the tips of her nipples, then lowers his head to tongue at them. It's unpleasantly pleasurable, sending little ripples down her spine. Qi'ra arches her back and gasps as he sucks on one, toying with the other with his hand. Gesso is stroking her abraded thighs with gentle fingers. Then Qi'ra hears a low buzz, something she can't identify.

"You'll like this," Gesso says in a low, intimate voice, and presses something against her clit.

It forms a suction seal around it, delicate, and starts to vibrate, and Qi'ra makes a noise entirely unlike the kind she made while being raped by Linjir and Ralan, a low, gutteral moan, scraped from deep inside her. The feeling is immediate and consuming, a ribbon of pleasure wrapping around her spine and pooling in her groin, drawing tighter second by second. Qi'ra's felt it before but never quite like this, so potent and sharp.

"N-no," she pants, "please stop—"

And Gesso does.

"Petor," she orders, and before Qi'ra can figure out what's going on, she's shrieking in pain and thrashing to get away while he and Mso hold her down so he can get the nipple clamp on her other breast.

Then Gesso starts the vibrating device again.

Qi'ra squeals and her hips jerk, but she is thoroughly restrained, completely trapped in place; there's nowhere she can run. She can feel her pulse in her nipples and between her legs and she's crying, and Gesso is speaking to her:

"If you were mine, I'd keep you like this. I'd make you wear this all the time and fuck you daily until you learned your place…in fact, I might make an offer. How would you like that?"

Qi'ra can only whine while the pleasure builds, and builds—she's writhing, she's begging Gesso to stop, Petor is pulling on the chain connecting the nipple clamps and it hurts but it doesn't matter because the pleasure is unbearable—

Gesso is doing something, hiking up her skirt, buckling something around her hips.

"Neurolink tech in sex toys," Palakwi says from somewhere off to the side. "What will they think of next?"

"It's fantastic. You should try it sometime."

And then Gesso is holding her by the hips and sliding something inside her, where it hurts so badly. It's impossible for Qi'ra to care, because the vibrating device has found the exact frequency to keep her on the edge without letting her peak. She's sobbing and begging, and all Gesso says is, "Good girl—good girl, ah, you feel so good. Petor, Mso, she'll feel so good for you two."

The rhythm again, but this time the pain is accompanied by a raw, burning pleasure. In and out, in and out—Gesso keeps moving. Qi'ra's body tenses and releases, tenses and releases.

"Say please and I'll let you come," Gesso murmurs.

"Please," Qi'ra cries out, not entirely sure what she's begging for. "Please!"

The vibrating device kicks up a notch and Qi'ra explodes.

She can't count the time between her orgasm and Gesso's, but when Gesso is finished, Qi'ra starts crying again. Not because of pain, although she hurts more than she ever has in her life, or because the horror of what has happened has set in, but because of Gesso's words:

"Mso, Petor, your turn."

They are gentler with her, at least, moving in unison. They've done this before, with who knows how many other beings. Mso sits on the table and impales her upon his cock, sinking her down inch by torturous inch; Qi'ra grabs his shoulders to steady herself, knowing she should take the opportunity to claw his eyes out, unable to do anything but survive the moment, and the next one, and the next.

When she's completely seated upon him, Petor puts a slick finger against her other hole.

"No," Qi'ra says in disbelief, but her words mean nothing here. She should have learned that by now. Petor doesn't even bother contradicting her; he just holds her completely still and eases himself inside her.

 _Relax,_ Qi'ra tells herself, _it'll be easier_ , but she can't make herself do it. She goes rigid with pain and fear as he violates her ass, his thick cock rubbing against Mso's where it's huge and hard inside her cunt. She didn't know she could be this full. She thinks she might die of it.

Then they start to move.

Qi'ra drops her head to Mso's shoulder and tries to breathe.

The worst part—the part she will never, ever admit to anybody—is how the aftershocks of the orgasm Gesso gave her makes it feel almost good. The spark of pleasure is there, deep inside her where both their cocks are thrusting, and as Qi'ra moans into Mso's shoulder, she feels it building into a flame.

"She likes it," Mso says, the first time he's spoken. His voice is gravelly and delighted. "I think she's gonna come!"

In her bonds, Qi'ra's legs quiver hard, and her hands ball into fists, and she bites her lip so hard she draws blood, and she hates this, hates this, hates this.

She comes, hard, impaled on her rapists' cocks.

And then the world seems to flicker as her exhausted body gives out. The last thing she sees is Palakwi, over Mso's shoulder, watching her with one raised eyebrow, and a look of what might almost be pity on her face.

* * *

Qi'ra fades back into consciousness in the same bed she'd woken up in the day before. For a moment, she wonders if it was all just a dream; then her aches and pains disabuse her of _that_ notion.

"Gesso made an offer for you."

Palakwi, in the corner. Qi'ra rolls over, wincing, to face her.

"What happened?" she asks, hoarse. Palakwi nods at a glass of water on the bedside table. Qi'ra takes it, not even caring if it's drugged, and gulps it down.

"Gesso's boys finished up with you after you passed out," Palakwi says, and Qi'ra has a horrible, vivid mental image of the two of them fucking her limp body. "And then I took you back. How did you like your first day?"

"Fuck you."

Palakwi raises a sardonic eyebrow.

"I thought so," she says. "Maybe I _should_ sell you to Gesso. Enneb could be persuaded, I bet. We could make a mindless sex slave out of you."

She takes the quirt from her side and taps Qi'ra's cheek with it. Qi'ra is too tired to snap her teeth at it, but she considers it.

"You're more fun like this, though" Palakwi says. "I'll break you yet. Get ready for another session this evening, Qi'ra. Linjir will be bringing you down."

And with that, she leaves.

Qi'ra curls up in the bed and gazes around the luxuriously-appointed room. To think she thought it was beautiful. Now she knows it for what it is: a gilded torture chamber.

 _I will survive this_ , she promises herself. _And one day, no one will ever hurt me again.  
_


End file.
